


Monday in the Park with Hubert

by minoriaki



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: M/M, Modern AU, Painting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:34:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24797755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minoriaki/pseuds/minoriaki
Summary: There are some things that artists find particularly enjoyable to create. For some, it’s the slope of the back. For some, it’s trees. For very few, it’s hands, but those people do in fact exist, much to the frustration of everyone else.The special thing that Ferdinand von Aegir possesses is the kind of hair Hubert loves to paint. Not only that, but the month since arriving in the city, Hubert’s found the occasion to paint him into two different paintings, both times somewhere in the midground._____________Hubert is a painter, and Ferdinand is in his way.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 5
Kudos: 93





	Monday in the Park with Hubert

The light of mid-morning draws shadows across the park as Hubert sets up his easel, highlighting flashes of the garden below in shades of blue and purple and red as he makes his home at the top of a play structure, settling at the top end of a slide. It’s a good view—one he’s used to survey the park at different times before.

The garden is his goal—places like this that are mostly frequented by children are often empty at this time of day, and the flowers were freshly planted about a week ago. A long enough period of time that they’d grown into their own ever so slightly, but not so late that the blooms had suffered much damage from their place in the public eye.

He lines up his colours, places his canvas, arranges his brushes. Brushing his hair out of his face before it falls right back into place on his forehead, Hubert takes a few minutes to plan before starting in on his next piece.

He starts with the general tone of the painting. The sky he places on the canvas first, as he always does—a soft blue that he gently brushes on with a broad brush to coat the upper half of the painting uniformly. A perfect, unblemished sky. He’ll break it up with a few clouds later, but it is nice to appreciate the wash of colour for what it is in the moment.

Framing in each detail, he pictures himself as the gardener planting each flower in turn as he meticulously begins to piece together the details. First, tilling and spreading the soil before watching each green sprout grow out of the ground and tending them until they grew to their proper size—the stems of flowers, the broad leaves of hostas. Hedges follow too, and the frames of buildings and fences across the street.

He then begins in on each flower, detailing each bloom in turn, until—until.

The children begin to file into the park in a single file line, each holding the hand of the child in front and behind, presumably so they don’t get separated. It’s almost like a row of ducks, which Hubert might not have minded if it wasn’t for the fact they were loud, and obtrusive, and were probably going to want to use the play-structure. 

He makes every attempt to look as sour as possible, hunching ever so slightly over his painting and disregarding the gaggle of youngsters as he does so until he finally can’t anymore. Because there’s someone standing in his line of sight, and the worst part is that Hubert knows exactly who he is.

It’s a smaller town, small enough that new arrivals tend to attract some attention. Hubert, for his part, wouldn’t be particularly bothered if it wasn’t for one particular attribute the new daycare worker possessed.

There are some things that artists find particularly enjoyable to create. For some, it’s the slope of the back. For some, it’s trees. For very few, it’s hands, but those people do in fact exist, much to the frustration of everyone else.

The special thing that Ferdinand von Aegir possesses is the kind of hair Hubert loves to paint. Not only that, but the month since arriving in the city, Hubert’s found the occasion to paint him into two different paintings, both times somewhere in the midground.

The first was a painting of a local market—a group of people shopping around the local wares and produce, Ferdinand’s back to the beholder of the painting, his hair instead tied loosely into a ponytail that he’d slung over one shoulder. It had been a smaller painting, a tad looser than his usual meticulous work, but there was no mistaking him.

The second time, he’d painted Ferdinand in on a strange whim after watching him walk past a house he was painting, the shape of him walking through and past the subject of the piece. A well-rendered afterthought that Hubert hadn’t been able to shake after watching him approach and retreat.

And now here he was, a third time, to interrupt a third painting with those features that Hubert found so incredibly difficult to ignore.

“You’re scaring the children,” says the man, arms crossed and blocking his view, having climbed halfway up the slide to make himself as intrusive as possible.

A weary sigh. “I’m simply painting.”

“You’re painting, and you’re also scaring the children.”

“Have you considered that my face does that for me?”

Ferdinand huffs. “You wouldn’t be half so… intimidating if you weren’t  _ scowling _ . And before you start, I’ve seen you before. You can’t tell me that’s your resting face.”

Hubert relents slightly, allowing himself a sigh. “If you would allow me a few minutes, I’m almost done. I would  _ prefer _ to finish while the light is good. No more than ten, fifteen.”

Having perceived some sort of victory in this compromise, Ferdinand uncrosses his arms with a smile. “I’ll organise a game among the kids, but only on one condition: I want to see the painting when you’re finished.”

“Fine.”

A smile that’s almost blinding in its satisfaction is thrown Hubert’s way, and he shrinks ever so slightly under its influence as Ferdinand hops down the slide and gathers the kids together, taking them together to the adjacent lawn to play.

Hubert silently thanks him—if it wasn’t for the noise, it would be almost as if he’d been allowed to continue uninterrupted. More than he could usually ask for. So he begins to paint again, adding in final details, and touches of colour to bring out the shades he’s already painted.

A bit of blue. Green. Yellow.

Orange.

Red. White.

Orange.

Yellow, blue.

Orange again. 

It doesn’t take particularly long for him to finish, the painting having become a warmer tone than he’d originally intended. However, there’s a particular light to it that can’t be denied, rays of warm sun that take hold on the petals of flowers and the broad shapes of leaves.

As he begins to put his things away, he feels a presence climbing the play structure behind him and turns his head ever so slightly in acknowledgment.

“Finished, are we?”

“We are.”

“And….?”

“You wish to see the painting, there it is.”

He approaches, studying the painting as best as he can with Hubert shuffling and arranging his paints back where they should be.

Hubert spares a glance over his shoulder to see Ferdinand’s smile.

“It’s absolutely lovely. You know, I’ve seen your works before—I believe I’ve made it into two so far. Ferdinand von Aegir.” He holds out a hand for Hubert to shake.

“Hubert von Vestra,” he replies as he takes it, sputtering slightly and choking on nothing with a cough.

Something about it—perhaps some smack of sadism Hubert hadn’t recognised in the other man—only makes Ferdinand smile wider. He moves around the painting and sits at the top of the slide, heading down it in as graceful a way as an adult man can, standing up and turning as he reaches solid ground.

He turns his head slightly, that same bright smile lighting up his face as his eyes crinkle at the corners. “Next time, Hubert, my good side is my left. I’m sure I’ll see you again.”

Some part of him can’t help it, and he commits the smile,  _ the left side, _ to memory as he acknowledges the farewell with a nod.

It’s not a terribly long walk home, and the gears turn in his head as he goes, in perpetual movement until he settles in his studio to paint a figure into today’s piece before he can deem it finished.

A redheaded man, smiling amongst the flowers, sun hitting the left side of his face.

**Author's Note:**

> [@Olivier_ebooks](http://www.twitter.com/Olivier_ebooks)


End file.
